Life can often be difficult, but writing doesn’t have to be. Take for instance the recent news that my wife Cathy has breast cancer. We’re in the early stages now of a challenge we didn’t choose, but one we’re determined to overcome. It’s the most difficult thing either of us has had to face. It’s overwhelming to try to express the complicated emotions this challenge elicits: fear, sadness, anger. It’s simple, though, to describe a moment from the third floor of the Stephanie Spielman Breast Center when Cathy and I found ourselves alone in the waiting room. We were waiting for a nurse to call Cathy back for her biopsies. The sun was streaming through a window beside us, and the warmth was glorious on a cool morning.

Cathy has always loved the sun. I put my arm around her, and she laid her head on my shoulder. She said to me with a soft voice, “There’s no one else I’d rather be going through this with.” I told her there was nowhere else I’d want to be. And for a few moments we were alone in the sunshine. It fell on our weathered bodies. It slanted across Cathy’s hand on my leg. It warmed my face. We closed our eyes, and I felt her breathing matching my own. There were no doctors, there were no other patients, there was no television playing in the background. It was just the two of us together in the sunshine.

Pay attention, I told myself, as I’ve reminded countless writing students. Pay attention to the world around you. Pay attention to the details. You can’t write the moments that surprise you and your readers with their truth if you’re not awake enough to find them. Open yourself to what you wouldn’t expect—this moment of grace amid so much uncertainty, this moment of true intimacy, this blessing, this love.